


I Will Follow

by TVateMyBrain (datsunblue)



Series: The Ghost of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John's gun, Mycroft's Meddling, Pining John, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datsunblue/pseuds/TVateMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is back here again. In the same place we started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Follow

* * * * *  
  
The smell of the gun is like a part of him. His fingers know it well. They make their own path.

Coherent thought is not required.

 

The gun is not dirty. It has seen no use since he last cleaned it.

It is a ritual.

A meditation.

 

He knows the flesh this weapon has torn. The catalogue of lives it has cut short.

He sees them.

They tick over in his dreams, like a stuttering film reel on the back of his eyelids.

The report of the muzzle wakes him, short of breath, with a cry in the darkness.

 

Except that's not what wakes him these days. When he can sleep at all.

 

 

It's the sensation that he's falling.

 

 

 

 

The sound of a body.

Meeting the pavement.

 

with force.

 

* * * * *

 

The flat is clean. As clean as it's going to get.

Plastic sheeting folded neatly in the draw next to his bed. Ready to be laid out.

Beneath it, his documents.

 

His good shoes are polished. His suit hangs on the back of the door.

He's not exactly sure why he bothered to get his hair cut.

His own thought process eludes him.

 

He lubricates the moving parts of the gun. It comes together again in his hands.

Like a slow explosion in reverse, until he is holding it, in his hand again. Complete.

 

He brings the muzzle up to his temple, experimentally. Not loaded.

The metal is warm from handling. It leaves a trace of gun oil on his skin.

He feels as though he is looking down that barrel at himself. Far away. Abstracted.

 

He places the gun on the table before him. Wipes fingers on the towel. Presses the heel of his hands to the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Breathes in. Breathes out.

Breathes in.

 

How many more breaths?

 

 

 

 

Somewhere, a phone is ringing.

 

* * * * *

 

“ _Hello Lestrade.”_

 

“ _Is that you Mycroft? “_

 

“ _Of course. Listen old chap, I think you should give John a call.”_

 

“ _...”_

 

“ _It would be in your best interest to do it sooner rather than later. Oh, say, in the next two minutes? Maybe pop round for a chat.”_

 

 

 

“ _... … ... alright.”_

 

 

 

“ _There's a good chap.”_

 

_* * * * *_

 

 

 

 


End file.
